The Naked Truth
by AsSafeAsSnape
Summary: Sherlock enjoys naked cuddles, and Greg enjoys naked cuddles. John, however, doesn't... Come to think of it, neither Greg nor Sherlock have ever seen John completely naked. Why? What is he hiding? John/Sherlock/Greg ONE SHOT *Warning: Contains mentions of abuse* All characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the modern characters to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.


The Naked Truth

**A/N: Hi! I've decided, after years of writing only Harry Potter fanfiction that I'd try something entirely new. Of course, after only such a short time of reading Sherlock fics, I wasn't even slightly confident in my ability to change over to interpreting a completely new fandom, but I tried my best. It was just nice to write something so different for a change. I'm not going to pretend it's any good, because it's not, but I didn't think it'd hurt to post it if I could get a bit of constructive criticism on ways to improve on plot lines, character development etc. I'm not sure if I'll write another Sherlock fic at this point in time, but if a few of you like it I just might consider it ;) Thanks!**

The supposedly difficult case had been expertly closed in a mere three days. Sherlock had, of course, correctly deduced who the murderer was in the first twenty five minutes of being at the scene. He never missed a beat, rattling off countless 'unseen' clues as though it were a thoroughly planned and well-rehearsed speech, as always impressing his blogger John, and Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock smirked at the memory of John muttering 'brilliant!' under his breath.

With the case closed prematurely and the killer locked safely behind bars, the three worn out men had an opportunity to relax and spend much needed time with one another. Sherlock, until a year ago, hated the thought of being without a case, not wanting to join the rest of the 'dull' and 'boring' world. Now however, he almost couldn't wait to relax in the company of his two best friends, his two _boyfriends._

Glancing at the clock, he frowned slightly; Lestrade promised he'd be here twenty minutes ago. The older man was never late, and he hadn't called to say when he'd be round…

The soft click of the front door and the slightly creaking staircase only minutes later served to calm Sherlock's racing mind; He could tell Lestrade's footsteps from anywhere… Just as the DI's smiling face appeared through the open crack in the living room door, Sherlock propelled himself gracefully out of his armchair and towards the older man. Never would he admit that he'd been worried…

"You're late." Sherlock growled, before casually flinging his arms around his boyfriend's neck. Greg wrapped his own arms around Sherlock's back to return the embrace, allowing his young lover to nuzzle his face in the crook of his neck. He could tell that the consulting detective had been worried that he hadn't showed up on time. And although Greg knew that Sherlock would never willingly admit to feeling emotions, the fact that he was worried over his whereabouts left Greg feeling loved and wanted.

"Sounds like you were worried about me." The smile was evident in his voice. Sherlock pulled back, trying to mask the look of embarrassment that momentarily flashed across his face.

"I wasn't," he replied, not entirely convincingly.

"Were too," Came the soft and unexpected comment from Greg's favourite army doctor, who lay sprawled out on the sofa, head resting uncomfortably on the arm. Greg hadn't even realised he was lying there, and felt guilty for not acknowledging him.

"Hey mate," Greg beamed, cutting off Sherlock, who was in the middle of telling John he was stupid and a liar. He made his way over to John slowly, crouching down by his head despite his old, aching knees.

John had a look of utter despair plastered across his weary face, familiar and taunting. Every time Lestrade joined Sherlock and John at Baker Street after solving a case, that same, terrified look always seemed to be present. It unnerved Greg, not only because he was never able to determine what was wrong, but because this beautiful, kind man seemed to be in pain, despite assuring him he was 'fine' every time Greg questioned him about it.

Knowing John tended to be nervous and jittery in these moments, Lestrade brushed his hand delicately through John's sandy hair, and pressed a short, gentle kiss on the man's right temple. Although John never physically moved, Greg could've sworn that John was trying to pull back from his light, tender touch.

It worried Lestrade seeing John this distressed. He almost could've been convinced that the doctor didn't want to be with him, if not for the fact that John, unlike Sherlock, openly sought out physical contact in public. It was most unsettling to see him crave for affection in public, only to have his handsome partner completely withdraw in the privacy of his own home.

The Detective Inspector was at a loss of how to deal with this constantly recurring situation. John would never display such strong feelings towards him in the public's eye if they weren't real, which meant there was a deeper reasoning towards the doctor's strange actions.

If neither the Detective Inspector nor the world's only consulting detective were able to deduce what was going on in their lovers' head, then there would be no one else in the world, other than John himself, that could explain his unnerving behaviour.

That wasn't to say the pair hadn't tried, oh no. For a year now they'd been observing and deducing, and even if another passed, they would never, _ever_ give up on finding what had been troubling their dear Doctor Watson for so long. If only John would open up to his worried lovers and tell them what was wrong, then surely the two of them combined would be able to do something to help the poor man. Did he not like the intimacy, or the speed at which their relationship had grown? Was he nervous, scared, worried, embarrassed? The endless possibilities tortured Lestrade's reeling mind…

Realising that John had already answered, and that he had practically been staring at the poor bastard, obviously making him uncomfortable for God knows how long, Lestrade directed his gaze elsewhere.

His eyes were instantly drawn to Sherlock's slim, sexy figure, completely naked, standing by the kitchen entrance; the most beautiful man he had ever seen. '_One _of the most beautiful men he had ever seen', he corrected himself, glancing back down to the doctor lying vulnerable on the sofa. _Vulnerable_… he hated that word, especially when it came to John. But despite that, he was perfect. Because John Hamish Watson, was indeed, in every single way, perfect. They both were really, and Greg considered himself the luckiest man on the planet…

Sherlock let out a fake yawn, begging for attention. "Well, I'm retiring for the night. It's late; I'm tired. My bed is open for cuddles if anyone would care to join me," he teased, giving Greg a pointed look, John a hopeful one. Lestrade couldn't help but grin at Sherlock's antics.

Without another word the consulting detective padded off up the hall, leaving his two very serious looking boyfriends alone in the living room. Greg took a moment to catalogue John's body, everything from the tense position his body held, to the almost blank, vacant look cast on his face.

"John?" He whispered, trying to gain the silent man's attention. No answer. "John," he tried again a little louder, this time startling the army doctor out of his thoughts.

"Why don't you come to bed mate; you look knackered." He sighed regretfully as John shook his head.

Moving his hand cautiously up to his boyfriend's slightly pale face, Greg brushed his fingers tiredly through his short, sandy hair again.

"Talk to me John," he almost begged, "What is it that gets you so down all of the time? Please tell me sweetheart…"

John knew that Greg was worried about him, but there was nothing that he or Sherlock could do to help him. This was his problem, couldn't they understand that? He didn't want them to see his disgusting body, at all, ever. There was no way this army doctor was taking part in any naked cuddling sessions, no matter how much he loved his two boyfriends.

Hearing Greg beg him to speak to him, calling him affectionate names, border lining hysterical, nearly broke John's heart. He didn't mean to hurt the older man like that; he just didn't know what to say. Subconsciously, John forced the words 'I'm fine' to form on his lips, but they came out pained, almost completely inaudible. He was sure he heard his voice crack too.

Greg scooped John's trembling hands up in his own, kissing his vibrating knuckles. "You're not 'fine', John, something's obviously hurting you; has been for over a year. Christ mate, you're nearly in tears. Whatever it is, it'll help if you talk to us about it. We love you John, we don't want you to be in pain like this."

Greg pushed himself back to his feet, using the sofa armrest to assist him. He carefully, tenderly eased John's shoulders forward and slipped in behind him, hugging his favourite doctor to his chest. He was wondering whether or not that was such a good idea; John's entire body tensed up, faint trembling radiating through his form. He could feel the younger man trying to calm himself in his arms.

"John? Would you be more comfortable if I wasn't here? Because if it's me, I won't be angry or upset if you want me to leave…"

"No! No, it's not you… Please don't go." He sounded and looked terrified.

"Hey, mate, it's alright, I just had to be sure. I'm not going anywhere, okay? Please come to bed. We're just sleeping, nothing else. We won't force you to do anything you're uncomfortable with." John nodded hesitantly, but that was good enough for Lestrade. He eased his distressed partner forward, swinging his legs off the sofa and standing to pull him up. John paused for a second, before reluctantly taking the offered hands.

Greg cupped John's cheeks for a moment, studying his face carefully, before placing a tender kiss to his slightly trembling lips and manoeuvring him into a gentle embrace.

"You know you can tell me anything John," he whispered. "I'll always be here to support you with anything mate; same goes for Sherlock." He felt, rather than saw John nod his thanks. Lestrade released him, almost unwillingly, from his grasp, settling with holding a hand, their fingers knitted together.

John allowed himself to be led to Sherlock's bedroom by his boyfriend, silently hoping to be allowed to return to his own room, unaccompanied. He wasn't so lucky, however, soon finding himself being gently deposited on the edge of Sherlock's, empty, pulled back bed. He sat there, waiting, staring pleadingly at Greg.

Greg, meanwhile, had begun to strip almost teasingly in front of John, hoping to elicit a positive reaction out of the despondent army doctor. He seemed depressed, Greg realised, wondering what had caused this unusual change after the three men had solved a case and retired back to 221B Baker Street. John _never_ had displayed such concerning behaviour anywhere else…

Sherlock pushed through the bedroom door, almost startling at the second presence in the room. "Ah John, I'm pleased to see you've finally decided to join us." He veered round Lestrade, giving him a rough _slap_ on his left bum cheek, smirking at the Detective Inspector. John flinched. Lestrade didn't appear to have noticed, but Sherlock, of course, did.

Deciding not to mention what he'd just observed, Sherlock tiptoed round the bed, throwing himself down carelessly behind his precious blogger. Again, John flinched. Sherlock frowned in concern, although still unwilling to confront John. He sighed deeply and flopped back against his pillow, trying to provoke John into relaxing as well. The good doctor was lost in his thoughts, however, seemingly oblivious to everything happening around him. Sherlock and Greg shared a worried look…

Minutes later, Lestrade had crawled into bed on Sherlock's other side, yet John was still perched on the very edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, the remainder of his body tense and rigid. He was so lost in his thoughts that he'd completely forgotten where he was. Sherlock's warm, slender hand resting on his back startled John for a third time in as many minutes. The younger man couldn't let this go on any longer…

"What is it, my sweet John?" He purred, as he forced himself into a sitting position. He draped his lanky arms around the older man's neck, burying his face into his short, sandy hair. The heat of John's embarrassment warmed Sherlock's arms. He waited for an answer, but never received one. He was dimly aware of the bed shifting behind him as Greg too sat up, more concerned than ever.

"Coming to bed, John?" The Detective Inspector coaxed, feeling the need to break the silence in the room. "Come on mate, you need to get some sleep; that's all we're doing."

Still no response. "John, something is clearly eating you up," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, but not unkindly. "Will you please talk to me, and tell me what is going on?" He kissed the back of the doctor's neck.

"Can't." The whisper was so faint that Sherlock barely heard it.

"John, why can't you? Something is hurting you and I need to know how I can help…" His arms tightened as he pulled him closer.

"I just can't, Sherlock. There's nothing you can do to help."

Why was his John feeling this way? What had happened to make him sound so utterly helpless, so broken? Sherlock released his lover from his embrace and clambered off the bed to crouch before him, resting his hands on quivering knees. His partner's appearance rattled him; he looked defeated…

John was noticeably shaking, his face pained, pale and sweating.

"You don't look well. Are you feeling ill, John?" He gasped, oh god no, surely not… "John?! You're not…sick…are you?" This grabbed Lestrade's attention immediately.

Sherlock cupped his face gently from where he was kneeling, while a strong pair of arms wrapped around his torso from behind, the owner's face buried in his neck. "No, please… Tell me it's not true" Greg whimpered out of sight, his voice thick with emotion. John was surprised by how much they actually cared…

"I'm not sick," he reassured, though not certain of the effectiveness of the statement.

"Thank god," Lestrade whispered, louder than he had meant to. John attempted to stifle a yawn, so Greg sprang into action. "Look, it's late, we're all tired, and you look as though you're about to collapse. Why don't we go to bed and save this conversation for in the morning? Mind giving me a hand, Sherlock?"

Sherlock obliged wordlessly, moving back to the bed. Without permission, the concerned lovers began to remove John's shirt, helping to prepare him for bed, until John let out a frightened, '_No_!' startling them.

John twisted in their grip, freeing himself and launched himself off the bed and towards the door. However, he had forgotten about Lestrade's clothes carelessly dumped to the side, and tripped over a shiny, polished, black shoe, colliding into the door frame with a loud _thump_! "John!" They cried in unison, rushing to his side. And that's when Sherlock noticed…

Peeking out from underneath John's shirt was an array of countless white scars, differing in sizes, and some fairly recent. Sherlock let out a horrified gasp, as did Lestrade, and finally they realised what John had been so desperately trying to hide from them.

They helped the army doctor sit upright, leaning him heavily against the surface that had injured his beautiful face, streams of blood trickling from his nose to his chin. Even more worrying was the sob he choked back, trying to keep the tears pooling in his eyes at bay. Neither man knew what to say…

John heard the gasps after his attempt to flee failed and he ended up flat on his face, a searing pain in his nose. At that moment, he knew they knew… He had felt his shirt caught up under him, leaving a good portion of his vomit worthy, disgusting back exposed for the world to see.

For so long he had kept his foul secret hidden, and now he had gone and ruined everything… He wasn't perfect like Greg and Sherlock, or how they thought he was. He was foul, vile, and now they had _seen_. The thought made John sick to his stomach. Yes, they knew he'd been shot, and had a scar that covered almost his entire shoulder, but this was different.

Now that they knew what his body really looked like, there was no way that Sherlock and Lestrade would want him anymore. No one would want him ever again. He supressed a sob as he felt the other men guiding him to a sitting position, unable to look them in the eye.

Lestrade, feeling more confident than Sherlock, moved directly in front of their upset lover, using his discarded shirt to wipe the blood off John's face, shocked when the movement caused tears to trickle steadily down either side of the poor man's face. Seconds later, the first sob erupted; all eyes fixed on John.

John could take their pitying looks no more and pushed himself quickly to his feet, retreating back through the living room as fast as possible and out the door, heading straight for his room. He didn't even make it inside before he collapsed, sobbing heart-breakingly into his hands.

Lestrade had been unable to believe what he'd just seen, feeling furious with himself for not realising what had happened to John. He was a _detective_, for Christ's sake, he had dealt with countless cases of domestic violence! He should have known!

"Don't," he heard Sherlock mutter, cutting into his thoughts. "There's no way you could have known. The scars aren't from recent abuse, Greg, and there is certainly nothing you could have done to prevent it."

He nodded, hating himself for having to admit that Sherlock was right. He just couldn't believe that this had happened to their John; sweet, innocent, caring John Watson. He didn't deserve this… "Let's go and talk to him; he was trying to keep this from us for a reason, Sherlock, he needs to know that we will always love and support him no matter what."

Sherlock couldn't agree more. He sprung up from his crouched position, hauling Greg with him. He knew that, with the state his mind was currently in, that John would not have ventured from 221B Baker Street. With Greg's hand firmly clasped in his own they began their ascent of the narrow staircase, finding John curled in on himself three quarters of the way up, tears falling freely.

Neither Sherlock nor Greg had never witnessed John in such a state; with his head buried tightly between his knees, his whole body trembling from the force of the violent sobs, he sat, uncaring of whoever happened to stumble across him at this point in time…

Creeping slightly closer, Sherlock knelt down at his side, placing a hand tentatively on his bad shoulder, not at all surprised when John flinched away. He was aware of the misplaced tears welling up in his own eyes as he crammed himself to sit between John and the wall, his right arm snaking sideways to rest across his upset lover's scarred back.

Lestrade was at a loss for words, unsure of how to calm and comfort the sobbing man before him, yet eventually found himself peeling John's arms from around his head, his own hands resting on his flushed, burning cheeks. "John," he whispered soothingly, trying to get through to him. "John, it's alright, everything is okay. We're not going to hurt you, sweetheart, we love you more than you could possibly imagine. We want to help you, mate; will you let us do that?" John watery gaze eventually met his own. His face was covered in tear tracks and blood.

The younger man's face screwed up as he lowered his head back down. "How could you possibly still love me? You saw what I look like underneath my shirt. I'm disgusting; I…I don't deserve you and Sherlock."

Lestrade was overcome by tears, and he turned away, embarrassed, as he swiped at his eyes, sniffling. "You're wrong, John," Sherlock resumed, as Lestrade tried desperately to compose himself. He planted a tender kiss on his blogger's temple. "You are most certainly _not_ disgusting, and Greg and I will always love you, including each and every one of the scars lining you back. We have to know though…"

"Who?" Came the broken whimper as Lestrade fought to rein his emotions in. "Who did that to you John; who was it that hurt you?" John flung his arms around Greg, forcing his way into a warm embrace as a fresh wave of sobs wracked his body. He inhaled the scent of the DI's favourite aftershave, and felt the welcomed touch of Sherlock's slender hand rubbing comforting circles on his back, finding that both helped to calm him down slightly. Fresh tears fell steadily once more, leaving a small puddle on his lover's neck, but Greg made no move to push John away, instead scooping him impossibly closer to his chest…

Sherlock and Greg waited patiently for the tears to recede, allowing their partner to release the flood of emotions that he'd held back for far too long.

Not once did Lestrade release his hold on John, planting firm kisses to his stubbled jawline and neck, assuring him that everything would be okay and that he loved the man more than ever. Finally, the sobs gradually ended, though the streams continued their decent down his face, as John finally found the courage to speak about what he'd kept hidden since he was a small child.

"It was my father," he admitted reluctantly as his voice shook, breathing still erratic. The continuous kisses and comforting gestures continued, giving him the strength to carry on. "Mum and Harry both knew, but never did anything about it, but I can't really blame them. And to be honest, I'm happy that he never hit them… His attention was always focused on me, which meant they were never in harm's way… I did well in class and was accepted into medical school before I joined the Army. I moved out of home and everything was fine… However, right before I got shot and was discharged I was treating a soldier that had taken a bullet to the stomach. I was concentrating on doing what I could, not realising how close to enemy lines we were… They took four of us as hostages, including the wounded soldier, looking for information, not that we knew what they wanted to know. We were there for a while… They… 2 of us managed to escape…"

"They tortured you for information, and shot you?" Sherlock questioned, seething quietly. He nodded.

"Oh John." Greg pulled back slightly to look at John's miserable face, his tears mingling with blood. He brushed the remainder of them away with a gentle swipe of his thumbs "I'm sorry that happened to you; you deserved none of it. What your family did to you was wrong. There were plenty of ways they could have intervened to protect you without endangering themselves, yet they selfishly sacrificed you without so much as lifting a finger to try and prevent it. I can see why they're not in your life anymore and I don't blame you in the slightest. You don't deserve to be treated that way by people who are supposed to love and care about you…"

"Greg's right John, you are more than worthy to be treated far better than you have been in life. And if your family won't provide you with the love and security that you deserve, then we will. Wait, that doesn't sound right, does it?" He thought for a moment. "What I meant was, we'll treat you right anyway, but we'll do it in their place as well." Lestrade snorted.

"I know what you mean. Thank you." For the first time that night, John smiled. "I love you so much, both of you… I was afraid I was going to lose you…"

"Never, my dear John. I'd miss you far too much, and I'd be lost without my blogger." He slipped his legs around either side of John's waist, stealing him from Lestrade and pulling his boyfriend firmly against his chest, receiving a startled protest from the older man.

"Hey, no fair, I was cuddling John!" He pouted as the army doctor was showered in kisses.

"Don't be greedy, Lestrade, you had your turn. And besides, John loves me more." It was said jokingly, but Greg looked genuinely hurt.

"You know that's not true Greg. Sherlock don't be so mean." John's leg was aching from sitting crouched for so long. He'd have to get up before long… "I think we should go back down to the flat. Poor Mrs Hudson will get quite the shock if she sees us sitting here like this."

Lestrade looked puzzled. "Why? You were upset, so we came to sit with you. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing at all. But the two of you _are_ naked, and huddled around me…"

"Christ!" Greg scrambled to his feet without missing a beat, covering what he could of himself with his average sized hands. Sherlock, however, wasn't worried in the slightest. 'He has no shame,' Lestrade thought to himself in amusement, as the consulting detective slowly rose to his feet. He padded off down the stairs to make tea.

"Do you mind?" John spoke as Greg turned to follow, pausing to find the younger man's outstretched arm. "My leg is aching a bit," he blushed, ashamed to admit he needed help.

"Yeah, of course mate." However, the lone limb was completely ignored, and instead, Greg slipped a hand under John's knees and the other behind his back, hauling him up into his arms. "It's probably best that you stay off it for a while," he said by way of explanation. John was content, snuggled up in Lestrade's arms again. He mumbled a quiet 'thanks', listening intently to the strong, steady heartbeat of the DI. "Any time, mate."

Greg entered the living room, turning up towards the hall. "It's time you actually get some rest now." John, for the second time that night, found himself in Sherlock's bed, this time being deposited in the dead centre. His shoes and socks were gently pried off his feet as Lestrade worked wordlessly. He made his way to the belt of John's trousers. "May I?" He waited for confirmation, before stripping him completely from the waist down, kissing as he proceeded. His loving ministrations were interrupted…

"Greg… I'm sorry…" Lestrade climbed up beside John's head, carding his fingers tenderly through his hair.

"Sorry for what? You've got nothing to apologise for sweetheart." He frowned in confusion, his eyebrows knitting together.

John thought for a moment. "For the last year; it wasn't fair to do that to you and Sherlock… Especially you, because I made you feel unwanted and unloved, like I didn't want you around. I'm sorry for hurting you like that Greg." The look of guilt on John's face was making him feel sick.

"Don't worry about it. I promise you didn't hurt me. Look, I understand why you didn't want to tell us that you'd been abused and tortured, and if I'm honest, I probably would have done the exact same thing if it had've been me. Please don't beat yourself up over it… Crap! Sorry… I didn't think what I was saying." 'God, I'm such an idiot! A frustrated growl sounded in his throat.

"It's fine, really. It's not the first time that's been said to me…"

"Lestrade! Are you upsetting John?" John couldn't help but giggle at Greg's surprised squeak. The consulting detective appeared in the doorway, awkwardly balancing three steaming mugs of tea. He appeared to be pleased with his dramatic entrance.

"Yeah, kinda." He turned back to John. "Sorry mate." His apology was waved of as unnecessary. He could feel Sherlock glaring at the back of his head.

"Honestly, Greg… And John, I know you've been apologising, quit it. You are not to blame."

Greg and John shared a look of utter bewilderment at Sherlock's statement, eyebrows raised. "Sherlock, how could you possibly..?"

"Because, John, unlike you, I _observe_. The guilty look on your face gives away everything. Tea?" He gave his partners the most irritating grin possible, moving to plonk himself down at their feet. He sat silently as they drank, the perfect time to make some important 'John' deductions.

'Resting his back against the headboard, so he's still reluctant and feeling self-conscious about showing his back. He's knees are drawn up to his chest, a defensive position. He still looks guilty, therefore feels as though he has to apologise, even though Greg and I have both tried to convince him otherwise, and his eyes are downcast, so he clearly feels embarrassed over the whole situation, possibly thinks he's made a fool of himself; untrue.'

Greg cleared away the empty cups, returning with a warm, wet cloth in his hand. He resumed his position beside John, gently tipping his chin to angle his face towards him. Tenderly, a strong hand steadied his head, the other expertly erasing the traces of sadness lingering on his beautiful features, before concentrating on removing the dried blood flaking on his face, ensuring that he never missed the corners of his mouth. Reluctantly freeing his lover's face from his grasp, he moved the bloodstained cloth to remove that of which had been smeared on his hands, before discarding it onto the pile of John's clothes.

"John, would you consider letting us take your shirt off? You've not got anything to hide from us anymore, and I'd like to finally be able to see all of you… You don't have to, obviously, but we really do love you, and hate that you're missing out on a big part of what our relationship could be. Just give it some thought, for us."

"I don't know, maybe… I really hate the ugly scars, can't even bare to think about them. I just don't want to repulse you, or turn you off. And I don't want to ruin what we have. I'd be lost without either of you…"

Wrapping his hands around the other's neck, Lestrade pulled John in for a passionate kiss. "We will _never_ leave you, sweetheart. We love you so much, and nothing you could do would ever repulse us. And if you think that you could turn me off with that gorgeous body of yours you can think again."

Sherlock crept closer as Greg moved his hands to fiddle with the top button of John's shirt. He sucked John's neck for a moment, kissing the dark love bite proudly. He had finally been allowed to mark his lover as _his_. "I love you, John Watson," he whispered as he pressed his lips firmly to his ear. John moaned and shivered, a tingling sensation taking over his body. "I love you too, Sherlock…"

"Do you trust us, John?" Their eyes met, and slowly John nodded.

"With my life." Sherlock nodded, and Lestrade proceeded to unbutton the shirt covering John's scarred body, pausing as John's eyes flew open.

John wasn't sure he could go through with this. He was about to protest, until he realised how much he truly wanted this. He didn't want to miss out on the intimacy that Greg and Sherlock had, not when they were so willing to share it. No longer did he want to be alone in the middle of the night, suffering from nightmares, while a floor below the two people he cared about most in the world were wrapped in each other's arms, not a care in the world. If they were willing to accept his ugly, broken body without so much as a second thought, then John was going to relent, and finally push through the burden that prevented him from ever having a normal relationship…

"John? If you're not okay with this I can stop. I'm not going to force you into this…"

"No. Please continue… If I don't do it now then I never will. I'm sick of being scared, of having my life shaped by my past. I don't want to miss out anymore…"

"We'll take it slow then, okay? It's just the three of us; no one else has to know about this unless you say so. Sherlock's right behind you… He'll protect you John, and I will too. There's not been much equality in this relationship, but that's about to change. We're not going to do anything that you're not comfortable with. If you need to stop at any point, don't be afraid to say so. We're here for you…

The last button popped out of place with Lestrade's assistance. He pushed the shirt aside to inspect the toned muscles of his lover's torso, a small smile growing on his face. "You really are a truly beautiful man, John Watson." He leant over to bring their lips together, leaving a trail of feather light kisses over his scarred bullet wound and all the way down to his heart. "Sherlock's going to remove the shirt now, okay?"

John nodded. Slowly he felt Sherlock peel the open shirt down his back and off his arms, closing his eyes to fight off the waves of disgust he felt for himself.

A lone tear trickled down his pale face, but Greg brushed it away immediately, planting a kiss in its place. John found himself being wrapped in a protective embrace. "It's off John; we're so proud of you. Please don't be ashamed of yourself; you're beautiful no matter what. You were so brave John, we love you."

Sherlock's deep melodious voice penetrated the surrounding air. "Why don't you try and get some sleep now, John?" He placed a tentative hand lightly on the mess of scars, rubbing gently when John made no move to pull away. He failed to miss the tensing of muscle, however.

"Yeah, I think I will." He glanced at Lestrade and Sherlock hopefully. "Is it okay if we…" John felt stupidly embarrassed, not bothering to finish the question.

"Cuddle?" Lestrade finished, looking John in the eye. "How could I say no?" He collapsed back onto his back, left arm outstretched. "Shoulder?" He provided, beaming up at John. John returned the smile, flopping down onto his stomach to rest has head against his shoulder, flinging an arm over Greg's chest. He planted a few kisses of his own to his handsome lover's face, before feeling as though something were missing…

"Sherlock..?" Where had his boyfriend disappeared to?

"I'm right here John, I'm just admiring the two gorgeous men curled up in my bed…" At the sad tone in their partner's voice, both Greg and John looked to where he was sitting.

John sat up, crawling further across the king sized bed, with a concerned Greg in tow. Reaching a hand out, John realised he had absolutely no idea what to do. He pulled it back, noticing a few delicate tears trickle from his dark eyes. He settled for reaching out and holding the consulting detective's hand. "Sherlock? What is it? What's wrong?"

Sherlock sniffled, meeting John's worried gaze. "I promise to never hurt you like that John…"

John's naked body and lips pressed against his, resulting in the most electrifying kiss he'd ever experienced. Hands explored every accessible area of each other's bodies as their tongues battled for domination, John surrendering and allowing Sherlock's complete access to his mouth. Lestrade watched the passionate exchange of saliva, becoming increasingly hot and flustered as he was forced to go without, feeling extreme jealousy for both of his boyfriends.

Finally John broke the seemingly endless kiss. "I know that you would never hurt me, you daft bugger."

His reply was one of full confidence; Sherlock was unable to doubt that John truly meant it, and felt immense relief wash over him.

Greg huffed in mock annoyance, dramatically flinging himself back down. John followed immediately, resuming his position on Lestrade's shoulder. He glanced back to Sherlock, who had not yet moved. He frowned slightly, feeling as though he'd failed the man somehow.

"Sherlock… I'm sorry. I can put my shirt on if it bothers you."

That caught Sherlock's attention, who wasted no time in clambering over to his side. "No, John, that's not what I meant. I love every inch of your back… I just hate that the filth that hurt you this way got away with it without consequence, while you took it upon yourself to shoulder the blame, only to end up resenting yourself…"

"None of that matters to me anymore, Sherlock. I have you, and Greg, and I couldn't ask for anything more. I love you both more than anything in this world; I'd be lost without you." Greg's hand came up to rest tiredly on his hair, massaging his scalp lazily. "The sight of me really doesn't bother you?"

"Of course not, you fool!" Sherlock replied, as if it was the stupidest thing anyone had ever asked him… It probably was, actually.

"Great, because I'd really love for someone to cuddle up to my back." The statement came out sounding confident, but both Sherlock and himself knew that was not the case. He still looked unsure…

"John?" Sherlock's face reflected his own.

"It's okay Sherlock, I completely trust you; go ahead."

Sherlock felt something warm spread quickly throughout his chest cavity. He didn't speak another word, simply curling up on John's back, realising what they'd both been missing out on. He traced a few of the scars with lips, pleased when John began to relax underneath him. As sleep overcame him, Sherlock smiled contentedly, committing to memory the first night he was able to spend with both his lovers, Greg Lestrade and John Watson…

**I'm sorry; this was truly awful. The idea was great when it first presented in my head, but I may have slightly attacked and distorted it when I translated it into words. Ah well, I didn't have the heart to discard it. I love Greg/John/Sherlock hurt/comfort far too much, no matter how terrible the writing, plot or spelling and grammar. Anyway, thanks for reading. And if, for some strange reason you happened to enjoy it, well, thank you! :)**


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